


Service

by stupidsoul



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Blindfolds, Body Calligraphy, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Group Sex, Guilt, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-30
Updated: 2011-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-23 06:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidsoul/pseuds/stupidsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the kmeme. Sebastian performs a service for the chantry. (Just because tags are misleading, no the group sex does not involve Carver or Elthina).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Service

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kmeme prompt: _Sebastian/lots. Because clearly all those heretics find their faith by fucking that pretty boy. And the Templars need a little treat evry now and then..._
> 
> There is some flimsiness in the setup of this story, particularly in regards to compromising poor Elthina's character and why any of this might truly be advantageous to the Chantry, but I was more interested in exploring the blind faith one can have in another person.

“Must we go over this every time, Sebastian?” Elthina asked, but despite her words, her tone held no note of impatience. She spoke to him with the same steadiness and warmth as he had always known from her. Her eyes may have been lined with more creases, her face a little tired, but she was never curt with him, even when he stumbled countless times over the same obstacles. She drew a hand to his cheek, her fingers softly brushing against the sharp slant of his cheekbone in the same manner a mother used to comfort a frightened child (and for all that Sebastian was a grown man, some part of him _was_ in fact fearful). “You need not feel ashamed. You are serving the will of the Maker with what you do.”

Although Sebastian had heard this lecture many times, it had yet to silence the traitorous voice inside of him that persisted in questioning his duties. It wove through him unbidden, awakening discord that was not befitting a brother of the Chantry. In its wake, nothing seemed clear. The teachings of Andraste grew muddled, their interpretation divided into contradicting arguments that were set in opposition. He found he could not continue without Elthina’s calming voice and long-suffering reassurances to once again steer him onto the appropriate path. During these moments when he lost himself in darkness, Sebastian wondered what he would ever do without her. If his faith would prove too weak and shatter under the conflict that occasionally plagued him.

“It feels as though I am breaking my very vows as a brother to engage in such activities.” Sebastian confessed in a low whisper, the weight of his burden clear in the strained resonance of his tone. That fragment of doubt was like a splinter in his flesh, small and often easy to ignore, but under the right circumstances, it would prick him in a painful, unrelenting reminder of its existence. He had given it voice only in Elthina’s presence, now and on many occasions prior. Already he knew her answer before she told it to him, yet he needed to hear it. He needed her words to strip him of the guilt and the second-guessing that riddled the very deepest part of his soul.

“These are not the same acts that you indulged in during your youth, Sebastian. You know this,” she assured him gently, and his fingers raised to cover hers where they still rested against his face, tightly gripping that smaller hand made of delicate bone and paper-fine skin, thinned and wrinkled with age. However, such fragility was deceptive. She possessed only a fraction of his size and strength, but he was the one that lacked sturdiness. She was a mountain in comparison, unmovable, unbending, whose presence had always been the one to provide him refuge. “I have told you many times. You make this too personal. You must remember this is not about you. It is about bringing others closer to the Maker. You are merely his physical representative, the agent of his will, so that through you, others will better know his glory.”

He closed his eyes, steeling himself for what he must do. The Grand Cleric had selected him out of all the brothers in the Chantry for what he should have considered an honor rather than a source of crisis. He could not let his own failings, his limited understanding of the Chant, keep him from upholding what the Maker desired of him. At last, Sebastian nodded. A breath slid uneasily through him, catching once in his throat, as he tried to speak.

“Forgive me, Grand Cleric. I’m ready now.”

“It is not wrong to question, Sebastian, but you must guard yourself against straying from the righteous course. Our natures, our primal impulses, these do not always serve as trustworthy guides.” She stood before him with only acceptance in her features, and Sebastian felt the intake of air that had stilled in his lungs escape in a low sigh of relief. In many ways, she had been since his arrival at the Chantry more of a mother to him than his real one, and he had always feared the disappointment he’d witnessed constantly from his parents might one day appear there in her face. But it had not yet come.

Resigning himself into her more capable hands, he allowed his eyes to slip shut again as she readied him for what would take place next. A familiar chant was sung softly in his ears. Sebastian knew this rite well. First came the cool slide of silk cloth slipped around his face and pulled taut as it was knotted against the base of his skull. Then the scent of incense that thickened the air with the sweet, heady aroma of sandalwood, and the warmth of candles burning nearby as they were lit one by one.

"Stand firm in the face of adversity,” she bade him, and with a gentle nudge, she bent him forward, her lips brushing against his brow. “Andraste is watching over you, and so am I." He could hear the soft shuffle of Elthina’s footsteps as she moved away, their echoes growing more distant in the great expanse of the room until the louder thud of closing doors signaled her complete departure. He felt colder without her company. The uncertainty returned. But Sebastian knew Elthina’s advice had been true. His instincts had often led him down unworthy paths. As a child, his parents had been embarrassed by his wild behavior, and after their deaths and those of his brothers, he had once again reacted in a foolish manner, letting vengeance rather than Andraste guide him into unnecessary bloodshed. He refused to give into compulsion now, standing his ground, waiting in place as he had been told. It felt like hours before he heard the doors open again, the low moan of creaking hinges and the click of metal as the handle was turned. His head angled in the direction of the noise, though he saw nothing beyond the blackness of the blindfold.

Sebastian could not determine how many entered the room, these lost souls whom he was expected to save. Their sets of footsteps were impossible to distinguish, and their voices a dissonant mix of male and female, speaking over each other in a whirl of conversation that sounded harsh against his hearing, having grown accustomed to the long silence. Nevertheless he caught fragments of conversations in the rounded accents of Kirkwall nobility that frequented the high-town streets:

“Is this what she promised us?”

“I thought he’d be more attractive.”

“But look at that mouth, the things I’ll do to it...”

Sebastian jerked back, startled by the featherlight touch of a thumb that traced over the line of his lower lip. He had not realized they had drawn so close so quickly. But they did not wait for him to recover from his surprise before they lay their hands against him, eager to perform the tasks with which they’d been instructed as they drew off his clothing. Perhaps he ought to have been pleased by their enthusiasm to participate, but he was not. His conscience once against rebelled, wondering how this could truly be acceptable in the eyes of the Maker, what purpose it could possibly serve. Sebastian struggled for enlightenment, though it never came, his only solace stemming from the knowledge that Elthina had directed him to take these steps. He trusted her above any other, a second mother to him and the epitome of what a Grand Cleric should be. He could never question her instructions. After all, she had been chosen by the Divine.

The weight of his spaulder was removed from his shoulder, the press of his chestpiece unlatched next. Skilled hands roamed his body to nimbly undo the buckles that strapped his armor in place, the curved plates of metal hitting the floor below with a muted clack, and the rasp of clothing slipped off. Their meticulous removal of his attire reminded him of long-forgotten days in his parent’s abode, where servants had once catered to his every need. Palms trailed down smooth planes of flesh, following the sinuous cords of his muscles. He never felt free of their invasive caresses, even as he heard them preoccupied by other activities: the slosh of liquid, the light clatter of wood. From experience, he knew what they were doing from the sound alone. Brushes made of soft sable hairs dipped into shallow dishes of thick, black paint.

The first time it drew against his skin he always shuddered, the graze of fine bristles leaving a trickling path of slippery wetness that left him more sensitive to the coolness of the surrounding air. He felt the curve of each stroke, the steadiness of every line, able to picture the fluid calligraphy as it was sketched onto his body. Letters transforming into words, words into verses. He recited each passage as it was painted like a brand over his uncovered flesh.

 _Many are those who wander in sin,  
Despairing that they are lost forever,  
But the one who repents, who has faith  
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,  
And boasts not, nor gloats  
Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight  
In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know  
The peace of the Maker's benediction._

His body could not help but react to the slithery glide of brushes that crept downward along the flat of his stomach, like the gentle taunt of soft lips made damp with saliva. He had once thought that being blinded to all that happened around him was a blessing, a means of separating himself from the distractions of the flesh and focusing only on the spiritual. But experience had taught him this was not so. His lack of sight only enhanced his awareness of his other senses, attuned him to every nuanced change in scent, and touch, and sound. Looping cursive followed the slope of his inner thigh, written that time without the aid of any tool, just the simplicity of a finger coated in paint; the act was a breach in protocol and strangely intimate, every word retraced with the languid application of teasing pressure. His voice trembled in quickening breaths that stuttered the length of lilting vowels, which concluded the verse, even as he attempted to maintain his concentration, keeping in mind only the word of Andraste, that he might reach those who came to him with the Chant and embody some faint glimmer of the Maker’s spirit. He would strive to rise above physical responses.

But the visitors to the Chantry were no longer hesitant in their touches. They handled him as if it was their right, careless to the finished work that they now swiftly destroyed with the hasty smear of fingers across his chest, dancing down the line of his abdomen, following the light trail of hair past the dip in his navel. He was left to the mercy of their unadulterated whims, the sway of their united momentum that held greater pull than his own strength. He barely knew how they could so easily make his body sing with unwanted pleasure, ignite these pure threads of hot, white intensity that left his head spinning and turned his vision, already dark from the material that bound it, spotty in a delicious glow. A sharp gasp escaped Sebastian at the sudden roughness with which someone took hold of him, working his length with a firm grasp and hard, furious strokes until he buckled against the ache of his own need.

It was wrong, so very wrong. Every twist of pleasure wrought from him was laden with guilt. Yet, determination alone did not appear to stop the way he would arch against tongues and teeth as they traced the shallow grooves of bone beneath the contour of muscles, or the scrape of dull nails dragged lightly across his flesh. He was tangled against them, the firm and broad-shouldered men, the slighter and more curvaceous women, caught in their maddening prison of ensnaring limbs, but never entirely certain how any of it came to pass. It all happened too quickly, ever-changing.

One moment it was the cool taste of skin as a curved breast was offered to his lips, delicate lengths of fingers curling around his own calloused palm that eventually guided him to press against the slick, readied warmth between a pair of slender legs. Then in the next, hands knotted in the hair of his scalp, shoving Sebastian down onto all fours, the slap of palms hitting the ground as he stumbled forward. Someone slid beneath him, and someone else coaxed his lips apart.

He didn’t know what occurred first, whether it was the thighs that locked around his waist and joined bodies together once his instincts took hold, or the more jarring force of an erection pushed down his throat, leaving his cheeks stained red with blush as he sputtered for breath. The part of him who had given his vows as a brother always felt shocked in the face of such vulgar acts, clinging desperately to Elthina’s words that this served some greater purpose. But a different part of him understood too well to respond, where to fix his hands in front of him to steady himself against the oncoming thrusts, just when to massage his fingers at the base, how to ply his lips along the length and tease the foreskin with his tongue. He heard the grunt of the man leaned over him, felt the quickening of his pace. His own was not so hurried, straining to resist the overwhelming need to buck his hips, bury himself deeper into the blissful heat of the figure beneath his, wet and inviting, her body rocking up to meet his.

Sebastian did not even hear the approach of another behind him, but the gentle brush of a mouth along the curve of his spine set off alarms, the light whisper it left made him shiver as warmth snaked over naked skin. His mind had no chance to process any further intent beyond the heavy veil of his arousal before fingers slid down his lower back and between the curves of muscles, seeking out an opening. It was instinct to pull away from the intrusion, the entry uncomfortable, but a firmer grip held him in place as long, spit-slicked fingers pushed into him, one joined by two, and then three The pain they elicited eventually dulled in its familiarity, and they were at last withdrawn to allow thicker girth that now pierced through him. His mind seemed to shatter as the strokes hit a frenzied rhythm, as they struck some hidden spot that overwhelmed his already tenuous self-control. Sebastian could no longer think. There was nothing but drowning pleasure that roiled through him like a poison, corrupting the line of every vein with its infection. The desire that filled him was sharp and searing, old addictions taking hold for the melding of feverish mouths and the taste of salt-tinged skin, the slide of bodies fitted together until passion tipped over the precipice.

Sebastian recoiled against his own visceral wants. He could not. He should not. Elthina would not have assigned him there if she had known that he could not keep his mind unclouded by carnal needs. He had to remain pure, in spirit if not body. But it all proved too much, lust spilled out of him in a hot, shuddering spasm. Release had come without invitation, without approval, but for a second he was seized by the understanding that so often evaded him, an ephemeral moment of catharsis. Right and wrong were no longer ideas of any importance, nothing mattered but this purity of emotion, this singular elation that seemed to shed him of the constraints of sinful flesh. The Maker had never felt so close, so real, so approachable. This was the reason for such acts, the lesson to be learned. The world made sense again.

But it ended too quickly. Clarity faded, confusion resumed, Sebastian was locked back into a body ruled by weakness and imperfection, only dully aware of the slippery coating, which dribbled across one cheek and signaled that he was not alone in his climax. Yet, for others, it was not over. His body was pushed and pulled by the movements of those surrounding him, trapped by their encircling limbs that promised him no chance of escape had he sought it. Even now, he was being impaled in a frenetic rhythm from behind, gripped so tightly that he was sure he’d been bruised where fingers dug against the angles of hipbones. A hand cupped his chin, forcing his head to one side until he was met by the warm slide of a persuasive mouth, his lips parting in submission to an intrusive tongue that coaxed a strangled moan from his throat. It thinned the air in Sebastian's lungs, but there was no chance to replenish it before another grasp took hold of him, turning his face in the opposite direction, breaking him free of the first kiss and replacing it with one more fervent, a ravaging blend of teeth and wet heat, that left his thoughts hazy, and his lips throbbing.

They whispered things to him, confessions breathed in susurrant exhales against his skin as lips traipsed lightly over the curve of his ears, the shuddered movement of softly spoken syllables grazing down the line of his jaw. One had coveted the wife of his best friend, another had told lies in order to further her position, a father lusted over his own daughter. The latter turned Sebastian's stomach. When he could not offer them outright forgiveness, he repeated lessons of the Maker’s capacity for love, his willingness to welcome without prejudice any to him who accepted the Word and repented their ways. But such sermons tasted like ash on his tongue. He did not feel worthy of speaking them. His only purpose there had been to bring to these people the teachings of Andraste, to give voice to the Chant of Light. Yet, his body always betrayed him. He should not have taken pleasure in any of this. Surely it was wrong to feel so painfully full of want, to be possessed with such wicked instincts that had compelled him to press against the skilled strokes of encouraging fingers without even the consent of his own mind.

He had been rendered a bundle of raw nerves by their indulgent pleasuring, where even the slightest contact seemed to make his body hum with overwhelming arousal that bordered on painful. But spent and tired he was far easier for the rest to manipulate. They took him in turns, adjusting him to their preferences, teasing his length back into occasional moments of semi-hardness until they had finished, unloaded onto him their darkest secrets as well as the startling slap of their seed, carelessly painted across his face and chest. He was too exhausted to ask of them anything different though he was already quaking with over-stimulation from prolonged touches; this twisted ecstasy-agony had been accepted without complaint, the punishment earned for his own failings to have allowed himself any enjoyment in this depravity.

When he at last heard the rustle of their movements as they redressed themselves, as the clink of coins filled the donation box with generous offerings and Elthina thanked them at the exit (How long had she been standing there? Sebastian was afraid of the answer), he crumpled to the ground, his back a smooth curve and his head pressed to the cool tiles that line the floor.

"You have done well, child,” Elthina told him. “There is much good the Chantry can do with this.” Once again he detected the rattle of metal, its muted clang as hard surfaces scraped together, and he imagined that she was sifting through the sovereigns and silvers to asses their value. When the sound eventually subsided, it was followed by the swish of robes. The collection had to be taken to her office, locked away for safe keeping. As much as he wished he could ask her to stay, to sit with him awhile, he knew he’d already monopolized too much of her time earlier that day with his need for reassurances. He dared not ask for another talk so soon.

“Now make haste. You must be presentable,” Elthina advised before she shut the doors behind her. “There are many others who would benefit from your ministry."

He trusted Elthina. She had always been the most faithful of the Maker’s servants in Sebastian’s eyes, her kindness and dedication to the Chantry unparalleled. Yet, he could not escape this feeling that he had done something horribly wrong, even as she had stood there with nothing but approval in her voice. Sebastian felt empty, repulsed by the filth that sullied both his skin and soul with such thoroughness he was certain no number of baths might rid him of it and no amount of chanting could garner the Maker’s forgiveness. Guilt sickened him, replacing the once-pervasive influence of lust, and he laid there unmoving, too ashamed to remove the blindfold from his eyes and be forced to see the evidence of what felt like wicked indulgences. Prayers that begged forgiveness were murmured by his lips.

When the cloth was at last removed from his eyes by the hands of another, Sebastian blinked against the bleary return of his vision. Even under the dim illumination of candles, his sight struggled to adjust against any light. He made out the shape of a face, the line of a mouth, the slope of a nose.

"Hawke?" The voice that escaped his lips was hardly more than a whisper, and then immediately he turned away as though this act might be enough to shield him from recognition. He couldn’t bear the idea of being seen like this by anyone, but especially one he so greatly respected.

"Not the one you're thinking of most likely. I’m his brother. Carver," the man replied with what sounded like a huff of resigned irritation as he leaned down and slung a robe around Sebastian’s shoulders. His fingers skimmed along the fabric, over the slight rise of rougher threads where the Maker's symbol had been embroidered in gold. It was attire common to those who lived in the Chantry and Sebastian was grateful for the cover it provided.

"He has mentioned you.” Sebastian preoccupied his gaze with the movement of his own hands, still too embarrassed to look up and meet the eye of another. Yet, he had stolen small glances at the stranger, taking him in more carefully so that he might note the differences in the features of this face and that of one, which had been a far more frequent companion. The dark curves of eyebrows gave a lazy lift denoting an unimpressed expression.

"Has he? I would have thought he was too busy, rubbing elbows with apostates and trying to free all the mages in Kirkwall." Carver’s voice was slightly strained by disapproval, and Sebastian responded with a knowing smile. He too had at times been frustrated by Hawke’s reckless intervention when it came to apostate mages, but the man had also done much good for the city, always standing in opposition of maleficarum and demons.

"I do not always agree with him,” Sebastian admitted, “but I believe he possesses a true heart."

"Yes, he's very good at making people think that," Hawke’s brother countered. There was a bitterness present, one for which Sebastian felt sympathy because he had for most of his life lived in the shadow of two older siblings. It had not been until he had accepted his place in the Chantry that he had begun to feel free of such covetous emotions. Perhaps this man had sought a similar path, though that hardly explained his presence there now. A worrying thought crossed Sebastian’s mind, his brow furrowing as blue eyes studied the familiar design of templar armor.

"Have you come to reaffirm your faith?” He inquired. Carver would certainly not have been the first to seek him out for such a reason, but the idea left him vaguely nauseous. To happen so soon after the others, when he had nothing left to give, his resolve too thinned by uncertainty. Still Elthina believed that this was good work, whatever his own foolish reservations over the situation might have been. She had entrusted these responsibilities to him, and he could not let her down. Sebastian drew a shaky inhale. “I fear I would be not much good to you now, but if you allow me a moment..."

"What? Reaffirm... ” Hawke’s brother stared in utter perplexity, and then he suddenly shifted, looking uncomfortable as his eyes darted about the room. His surprise came as something of a relief to Sebastian. “Is that what happened here? Because no! The Grand Cleric said you needed rest. She sent me to help you to your quarters. She was worried, and I can't say I really blame her. You look, well, awful."

Sebastian felt his cheeks flush in the blatant reminder of his own shameful deeds, the horrified shock that colored the younger Hawke's tone. "I imagine I must. I apologize for the disgraceful nature of my condition." He quickly closed the sash around his waist to better hide the gruesome smears of paint and drying semen across his skin.

"I didn't mean... Shit. I hadn't meant to imply..." Carver hesitated, combing a hand through his hair. It was his turn to appear embarrassed. "You just look tired."

"I feel tired." Sebastian agreed, and as much as he wished he could to be alone, where he might lose himself to prayer and meditation, there was a softness in the gaze, which rested upon him now with curious regard, familiar and not entirely unpleasant. "You do remind me of Hawke. You share his kindness, and his concern for others. I thank you for that."

"I'm just doing as I was told." Resentment had sharpened the edge of Carver’s response, and Sebastian realized he ought to have known better than to compare one brother to the other. Even when meant as a compliment, it could rarely be taken as such. Sebastian turned pensive, and Carver awkward at the harshness of his tone. His fingers twisted idly around the sword hilt strapped at his waist, his teeth drawing down lightly against his lower lip as he watched Sebastian collect his things, gingerly balancing them beneath one arm where they would be safely separated by the barrier of clean robes.

"Uh,” Carver sought to fill the silence. “Do templars really come to you to 'reaffirm their faith'?" Sebastian hoped that under the illusory shadows cast by the yellow glow of candles that Carver had not observed the way he’d flinched upon hearing the question.

"Some. It is their right." He explained as he followed the other man to the doorway. It was a relief to find that his voice had come out clear and steady. His doubts were his own, and he dared not lead another to stumble. "The Grand Cleric has said so."

"And you'd do whatever she asked?" asked Carver.

"Of course." That time there was no hesitation in Sebastian’s reply.

"Without question?"

Sebastian’s mouth thinned with the suggestion of a frown, and once again he could not meet the gaze of the other. The truth was shameful, but it was a sin to lie. "I question more than I should."

"So do I. There are things I've seen go on here, things I never expected, and it makes me wonder..." Carver’s voice trailed, the look on his eyes growing distant as he was consumed by thoughts that he did not openly share. Sebastian did not press for a full confession, but he nevertheless wished to offer the same support that the Grand Cleric had so often done for him. Steadfast and resolute, she had always served as in inspiration to him in her unwavering faith.

"We must trust the Maker.” Even with his occasional doubts, Sebastian was nothing if not devout.

"And I do,” Carver responded quickly, adding after a pause in a muttered aside. “It's everyone else that I don't trust."

Much to his dismay, Sebastian found that these words resonated too deeply within him.


End file.
